mitchiemoo

[mitchiemoo]

Close Up-Part 2 (Johnny Joestar x Reader)

Summary:  You are an upcoming, young actress, starring in your first major film. For publicity, the studio suggests you begin a relationship with your co-star, British thespian Diego Brando. Reluctantly, you agree, and soon find yourself at odds with Johnny Joestar, former Hollywood star. After losing his career and the use of his legs, Johnny offers to help you achieve fame but cautions the price. Is it really the fame you want? Or something else?

Warnings: Explicit Language

Word Count: 3,360

Part 1

Dating Diego Brando had its perks.

It had been little more than a month since you and he started dating, long enough for you to acquire a taste for the finer things wealth and status could provide. Expensive restaurants, glamorous parties, exclusive events, it seemed like nothing was too good for Diego. At first, it was overwhelming. Before every important event, he lavished you with elegant dresses and designer shoes. You tried to protest but Diego insisted, claiming you were now a part of his carefully cultivated public image. “All they know is what we choose to show them, darling.” He said. “They’ll never know the real you.”

If you were honest, sometimes it felt like you barely knew the real Diego. You were supposed to be his girlfriend, but you knew nothing about his personal life, his hobbies outside of acting, or even his family. In front of the cameras, he played the role of doting boyfriend so well that you almost forgot this was all part of some publicity scheme. His charisma as an actor was undeniable but as a person, he was cold and distant, sometimes even awkward.

At first, it seemed your fear of being defined by this relationship was coming to fruition. Just a day after the fundraiser, pictures of you and Diego together appeared all over social media with articles like “Brando’s Mystery Girl” and “Who is she?” Your Instagram followers practically doubled over night and when you walked onto set that day, a pair of studio executives greeted you enthusiastically. Apparently, the studio heads were very pleased with your relationship and commented on how smart you looked together. You had smiled politely and thanked them before heading to your dressing room to get into costume.

This was supposedly for your benefit, but it felt like you were reduced to glorified arm candy. On the red carpet, you’d smile at the cameras and feign interest in what Diego was saying to the reporters as you clung to his arm. Occasionally, they’d ask what designer you were wearing or how filming was going, but mostly you were ignored in favor of your British boyfriend. So you were ecstatic when the studio managed to book you a solo interview with talk show host, Panacotta Fugo. This was your chance to really show off your own charming personality and cement yourself as a rising star.

The ultimate “fuck you” to Johnny Joestar.

You hadn’t forgotten his hurtful words and arrogant demeanor. At least Diego dressed up his arrogance with politeness and snark. Johnny clearly didn’t care who he insulted. His words echoed in your mind every time you practiced your lines or smiled into a camera and it made you hunger for fame more than the vintage wine and stately mansions ever could. Diego had whetted your appetite, Johnny stoked it into full blown hunger.

You really hoped you didn’t run into him tonight. It was Steven Steel’s 54th birthday party and Diego received an invite, courtesy of Steven’s young wife, Lucy. Even if Johnny was there, the mansion and its crowd were so large you could probably hide in plain sight and never cross paths. That was one thing you hated about these Hollywood parties. It felt like you weren’t nearly famous enough to mingle with most of the people there. Small talk was painfully awkward, and most of the time you were happy to let Diego dominate the conversation.

Currently, you were standing in the living room of the Steel mansion, clutching a cold drink and listening to Diego passionately explain the differences between a utahraptor and a velociraptor to a very confused Lucy Steel. Frankly, you weren’t sure how the subject of dinosaurs came up or where Diego learned so much about them. You zoned out partway through the conversation. It was hot and loud, and your feet hurt from standing all night. At least you weren’t in heels. For a leading man, Diego was shorter than average and very self-conscious about his height. All the shoes he bought you were either flats or had a two-inch heel. Not that you minded. Especially when you went to events like these.

Lucy, bless her, seemed to notice your red face and tired eyes. “Oh, are you alright?” She asked, touching your arm. “You look faint, do you need to sit down?”

You nodded weakly. “Yes, please. It’s very hot in here.”

Diego wrapped an arm around your waist. “Do you need to go home, love?”

“No, I’ll be fine if I can sit somewhere quiet for a bit.” You croaked out.

Lucy tugged you out of his embrace and led you through the crowds and down a maze of hallways. How could someone live in a place so large? Did she ever get lost? It was just her and her husband, why did they need so much space? What if you couldn’t find your way back to the party? She turned, suddenly, and pulled you into a small sitting room with two couches, a glass coffee table, and some paintings on the light-colored walls.

“Please, sit down. I’ll let in some air.” Lucy said, scurrying over to one of the windows to the right. She was so sweet.

You sat down on one of the couches and pressed your glass against your forehead. Why did people stop carrying fans with them? “You don’t mind if I take off my shoes, do you?” You asked her.

“No, not at all. I took mine off ages ago.” Had she? You weren’t paying attention. Most of your mental energy was diverted to acting like you were enjoying yourself. You set your glass down on the table and slid out of your shoes. Much better.

“Stay here as long as you need to. I have to get back to the party.” Lucy said, apologetically. "It was nice meeting you."

“Oh, I’m sure Diego’s dying to finish his paleontology lecture.” You told her.

She failed to suppress her giggles. “He’s so devoted to you. You two make such a good couple.”

You resisted the urge to scoff and forced out a smile. Sometimes you forgot how your relationship appeared to others. Wholesome and loving, far from the pragmatic business deal it really was. You’d take it as a compliment. “Thank you, we’re very happy together.”

Lucy disappeared around the corner and you were left alone. You sighed and tucked your legs up underneath you. No one told you fame was lonely. It was isolating, being on the brink of stardom, knowing this role could make or break your career depending on how you marketed yourself. Were you really ready to tackle this interview all on your own? You’d been telling yourself this was what you wanted but would you know what to do? You desperately needed guidance, someone who understood what it was like.

“Oh, hey.”

You looked up and locked eyes with the last person you wanted to see tonight.

Johnny Joestar.

Shit.

Who invited him? Your heart pounded in your chest and suddenly the room felt like it was 100 degrees. Out of all the rooms in this place, he had to pick this one? And how had he managed to sneak up on you like that? A scowl crept onto your face and you moved to pick up your discarded shoes. Time to leave.

“Wait,” He said. “I’ve been lookin’ for you all night. But it’s hard to maneuver crowds in this thing.”

You crossed your arms. “What do you want? To humiliate me again?” You asked. He wouldn’t catch you off guard this time. If he started throwing insults, you’d retaliate with your own. At least, that’s how it went when you thought about it in the shower.

Johnny looked down at his lap and ran a hand through his wavy blond hair. “About that. I wanted to apologize for what I said at the fundraiser. It was completely out of line and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since.”

Your expression softened a bit. He was…apologizing? You didn’t think someone like Johnny ever apologized. This definitely wasn’t in your shower script.

“I know this doesn’t excuse my behavior, but I’d been drinkin’ beforehand, and Diego brings out the worst in me. Seeing you with him made me mad ‘cuz I think you could do so much better.” He continued.

You raised an eyebrow. “Really? Because you basically said I didn’t have ’star material.’”

“You don’t.” He said bluntly. “But you have potential, which is why I wanna help you.”

“I don’t want your help." You stated. "I forgive you for what you said at the fundraiser so don’t insult me further by saying I can’t do this on my own.”

“I’m not insulting you. I’m speaking from experience. Right now, you’re in a dangerous spot. What happens if Diego breaks up with you tomorrow? You haven’t established yourself yet so say good-bye to the fancy parties and red-carpet events. You’d lapse back into obscurity.” Johnny said.

“I’m more than just arm candy, you know. Next week I have an interview and Diego won’t be there.” You told him.

“Who’s it with?” Johnny asked.

“Uh, some guy named Panacotta Fugo.” You replied. “I mean, he’s not exactly Mariah Bastet but he has a decent following.”

Johnny’s brows furrowed. “Ain’t he on that really intellectual show where they talk about ‘the deeper meaning’ of films? I heard the guy’s a real Jekyll and Hyde. Super nice one minute and the next he’s rippin’ out your throat for using the word ‘less’ instead of ‘fewer.’”

“I’ll be fine, thank you. I can be very charming and intellectual.”

“See, this is what I mean.” Johnny said. “Doesn’t matter how charming you are. Interviews aren’t like acting, you don’t get a script. If you freeze under pressure or can’t think of a good answer, you’ll flounder around up there and make a fool of yourself.”

“How hard can it be? It’s a tv interview, not a master’s dissertation. All I have to do is answer a few questions about the movie, tell a few little stories, and look nice.” You knew what you were doing. You'd seen plenty of interviews before.

Johnny sighed and reached inside his dark blue suit jacket. He pulled out a pen and a paper napkin and started writing.

“What’re you doing? I don’t want your autograph.” You said.

Johnny shook his head and muttered something under his breath. He returned the pen to his pocket and wheeled over to you. “Here.” He held out the napkin. “It’s my phone number. If you change your mind, call me. No judgement.”

You searched his face. It was still set in a hard scowl but nothing in his expression suggested any sort of malice towards you. His eyes practically pleaded for you to take it. Was this his way of making up for his behavior at the fundraiser? A part of you wanted to accept. Johnny had been in the business a long time; he knew what he was doing. But your pride wouldn’t let you accept. You wouldn't be satisfied with success unless you were the sole reason for it.

“I said I don’t need your help. Keep it.” You said, hardening your expression.

“Christ, woman, take the damn napkin.” He replied. “I wanna help you.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanna make things right between us.”

“Fine.” You snatched the napkin from his grasp and grabbed your shoes off the floor. You couldn’t be in the same room as this man anymore. “The interview is at 8 o’clock Saturday night, if you’re interested.”

“I’ll be watching. Good luck.”

You stood up and brushed past Johnny. His eyes followed you out of the room, shoes in one hand, napkin clenched in the other. You weren’t sure whether to burn it or trash it. Burning it would be more dramatic, but Johnny himself belonged in the trash. You weren’t a charity case and didn’t Johnny himself say no one in the industry really cared about you. He’d eat his words. Or you’d eat yours.

-

You were surprised to learn the green room wasn’t actually green.

Instead, the walls were an off white, beige color and the floor tiles were made of linoleum. You were seated on one of the two black leather couches, anxiously fiddling with the plain gold bracelet around your wrist and bouncing your leg. There were a variety of drinks available, both hot and cold, and although you were thirsty, you didn’t want to miss your cue to go on-stage because you were in the bathroom.

Your eyes were glued to the tv screen in the corner of the room. It was tuned into commercials now which meant you were due to go on at any minute. Despite reassurances from both your agent and Fugo himself, your stomach was tying itself in knots. You weren’t intimidated by Fugo, who was very proper and polite despite his eccentric fashion sense and scholarly demeanor, nor were you worried about the crowd. You were worried about yourself. This was all you. You couldn’t just look pretty on Diego’s arm and let him lead the conversation. If you came off as aloof or empty headed, nothing would save you.

“We’re ready for you, miss.” One of the stagehands poked his head in and beckoned for you to follow.

With a shaky sigh, you stood up, glanced in the mirror on the opposite wall, and smoothed the creases of your dark skirt. Just breathe, you told yourself. This was no different from being on set with Diego and the director. There were just a few more cameras and a whole lot of extras.

You waited just off stage as the studio lights turned on and Fugo faced the cameras. “Welcome back, everyone.” He said coolly, adjusting his collar and straightening his tie. “Our next guest is a Hollywood newcomer. Starring alongside Diego Brando in one of the most highly anticipated movies of the year, please welcome…” Fugo announced your name to the crowd and the stagehand nudged you out onto stage.

You were greeted by a round of applause as you made your way across the stage to the empty armchair beside Fugo. He greeted you with a small smile and a strong handshake. “It’s so nice to have you here.” He said.

“Thank you for having me today.” You replied, settling into the chair.

“So, this is your first major movie role, correct?” You nodded. “How are you dealing with all the new attention? What’s it been like for you?”

You bit your lip as you tried to formulate an answer. “Oh, it’s been difficult to adjust but I’m lucky to be surrounded by supportive people.”

“That’s important. You need people like that to keep you grounded.” Fugo shuffled the papers on his desk and you visibly relaxed. If all the questions were this easy, you could totally handle this. “Phantom Blood is one of my favorite novels. Robert E. O. Speedwagon weaves such a compelling narrative and Norisuke Higashikata is such a revolutionary director, I’m very excited to see how he’s going to adapt the pervasive themes of social inequality and classism. Can you tell us about that?”

What.

You thought this was a typical Victorian love story with supernatural elements. Classism? Social inequality? Sure, Elena’s love interest, Dorian, is a poor tailor who leaves her to seek fortune in India and his rival, Jonah, is a wealthy merchant who deals in exotic goods, but you certainly weren't aware of any major societal commentary. There were vampires, for Christ's sake.

Your silence prompted Fugo to clear his throat and ask another question. “Are you a fan of the book too?”

You laughed, nervously. “Well, I was supposed to read the book in high school, but it was super long, so I just used SparkNotes to pass the quizzes.”

Dead silence. Your heart sank and the laughter died in your throat. Why wasn’t anyone laughing? Usually anecdotes like that got a huge laugh out of the crowd and showed how endearing and relatable you were. This had the complete opposite effect. Now you looked like a vapid, lazy, slacker who didn’t care about the source material at all.

Fugo looked genuinely offended. “You’ve never read the book?” He asked, eyebrows knitting together.

“Well, I, uh.” You tried to stutter out an explanation. “Th-the, um, writing was hard to follow, and the author kept going off on these weird tangents that didn’t have anything to do with the plot.”

“Those ‘tangents’ are part of the stream of consciousness narrative that Speedwagon as an author is so known for.” Fugo stated. “How are you supposed to faithfully portray Elena as a character if you haven’t read the source material?”

Your heart was pounding in you ears and you felt sick to your stomach. Fugo was making you feel like a complete idiot and you were proving him right. What were you even supposed to say? You couldn’t bullshit or make something up, he’d know. You took a deep breath and swallowed. Calm down. Stuttering and blurting out incomplete sentences would only make things worse. “As an actress,” you started. “I feel like an adaptation of any work should be able to stand on its own without having to access the source material. It should be judged by its own merit as a film, not by how well it adapts the book.”

You wrung your hands together in your lap as you watched the gears in Fugo’s head turn. “Of course, changes will have to be made.” He said. “But at what point does it cease to be an adaptation and instead take on a different identity? If the characters have the same names but wildly different personalities, can they really be considered the same characters?”

“I-I don’t know.” You were practically shamed into silence.

Fugo was still talking. “Say, if you wanted to adapt a Shakespeare play, let’s say Macbeth, and instead of being strong-willed and clever, Lady Macbeth was a passive character who wasn’t invested in her husband’s plot to take over Scotland or he was a content courtier with no ambitions.” Suffice to say, you hadn’t read that book either. “Isn’t your co-star, Diego Brando, a Shakespearean trained actor? What would he think?”

He was probably enjoying this. You could practically see him propped up in his bed, wearing a smoking jacket and a smug look on his face. He was probably drinking some expensive red wine that cost more than your rent and the next time he saw you; he’d chastise you for going off script like this. Diego claimed you weren’t ready for something like this when you’d told him but said he wouldn’t stop you from doing it if you were determined. Maybe you should've listened...

Tears welled up in your eyes. No, you wouldn’t cry. Not on camera. But the lump in your throat was right there and if you answered, you knew you’d lose your composure. Hadn’t you been humiliated enough? You just wanted to go home and die.

Your saving grace came in the form of one of the producers. He turned Fugo’s attention away from you and pointed at his watch.

His mood changed so fast it gave you whiplash. “Time for a commercial break everyone. Our next guest will be on…”

As soon as the lights dimmed, you rushed off stage and back to the green room to grab your things. That was a train wreck. A complete mess. You sneaked out the back door and hailed a cab. The tears were falling freely now, and the cab driver gave you a sympathetic look as you choked out your address. At that moment, you were questioning your whole career.

You reached into your purse and fished out a tissue. You went to wipe at the tears before you noticed how thick it was. It was a napkin and there was writing on it. Oh. You completely forgot about that. In blue ink was a number and a name.

202-555-0797

Johnny Joestar

You swallowed your pride and dialed the number.

-

Tumblr doesn’t seem to like me. Maybe it’s because I’m new but my posts never seem to show up under the tags. Oh well. I update this story on Ao3 every Friday night if you wanna check me out over there. Thanks for reading!

[mitchiemoo]

Close Up-Part 1 (Johnny Joestar x Reader)

Summary: You are an upcoming, young actress, starring in your first major film. For publicity, the studio suggests you begin a relationship with your co-star, British thespian Diego Brando. Reluctantly, you agree, and soon find yourself at odds with Johnny Joestar, former Hollywood star. After losing his career and the use of his legs, Johnny offers to help you achieve fame but cautions the price. Is it really the fame you want? Or something else?

Warnings: Explicit language

Word Count: 3,539

“Darling, I promise I’ll return. When I do, I will be a true gentleman, one worthy of your affection.” Diego’s eyes gazed intently into your own as he raised your hands to his lips and kissed them.

You gasped and stepped back in shock. “Oh, sir,” you said. “You needn’t earn my affection, for I have already given it to you. If I am to be the wife of a tailor, then so be it. Please stay.”

Diego rose to his feet and gripped your hands tighter. “No, I must go. I shall better myself to provide the life you deserve. My father was a cruel man, who worked my poor mother into an early grave. The day he died, I resolved to never become a monster like him.” His voice shook with emotion and you could hear the desperation in his voice. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, right on cue.

“They shall wed me to another man before you return. Search your heart, you know it to be true. What shall you do with your fortune then?”

A shout came from off stage. “Elena! Jonah is looking for you.”

Panic crossed Diego’s face as you snatched your hands from his grasp and turned away. “I’m sorry, I must leave now. Goodbye, Dorian.”

“Wait!” He called after you as you rushed off stage.

“Cut!”

You breathed a sigh of relief as the lights dimmed and the bell rang. It was hot. Oppressively so. Especially in your costume. Sweat soaked the back of your neck and the under layers of your dress stuck to your skin. No wonder Victorian women were so prone to fainting spells. The late 19th century dress you wore was exquisite and you admired yourself in the mirror while wearing it many times. But the skirts were extremely heavy and restricted your movements.

It was a relief when you plopped down on one of the prop couches scattered around the set. The ornate fan your character used in an earlier scene laid discarded on the spot next to you. You opened it and desperately fanned yourself.

“Would you like some water, miss?” One of the stagehands offered. You nodded and wiped at your teary eyes absentmindedly before you remembered you were wearing make-up. Oops. The stylist would not be happy with you.

“Good read today.” You looked up.

Your co-star, Diego Brando, stood in front of you, looking extremely disinterested. He had shed the dark blue coat he wore in the scene and rolled up the sleeves of his plain white button down. It looked like he barely broke a sweat. “Although, you should try to look more devastated. At least you didn’t forget your lines today.”

If he said that to you at the beginning of filming, you would’ve been fighting back tears. Now, you simply brushed it off. Diego Brando was a world-famous actor. He had been classically trained at the Royal Shakespeare Academy and performed in several critically acclaimed plays before his debut on the silver screen at age 19. Compared to him, you were nothing. This was your first major role and the extent of your training was reading Shakespeare aloud for your family as a child.

“Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind.” You said through gritted teeth, picking at the intricate golden embroidery on your dress. The stagehand you sent to find water returned and you immediately began gulping it down.

You were surprised when he sat down beside you. He sighed and ran a hand through his golden blond hair.

“Look,” he started. “There’s a fundraiser tonight at one of the local art galleries and the studio wants us to go together, as a couple.”

You choked.

“Wh-what?” you managed to sputter out.

Diego rolled his eyes. “Don’t get too excited, alright? You’re not my type and frankly, I’m not attracted to you in the slightest.” He continued. “The producers and studio executives think this is a good way to get publicity for the film and help our, err, your career.”

You furrowed your eyebrows. Normally you would be insulted by Diego’s words but if working with him had taught you anything about him, it was his strong sense of pride. Nobody was good enough for Diego Brando, not even himself. Especially unknown, amateur actresses like you.

“How does going out in public with you help me, exactly?” You asked.

“Don’t sound so ungrateful, love. Thousands of other girls would kill to be in your position.” He spat and waved his hand dismissively. “We get photographed together, the press makes a fuss about ‘Diego Brando’s mystery girl’, who she is, where she’s from. The public wants to see more of our chemistry and go see the movie. The film’s a success, you’ll be named one of Hollywood’s most promising newcomers and a few months later, we quietly ‘separate.’”

You looked down at the ice in your glass, quietly mulling over Diego’s proposition. All you had to do was pretend to fawn all over him at award shows and fancy parties, where other famous actors and directors were, and your movie would draw crowds of people? It was too good to be true. The only downside you could think of was spending more time with Diego. Your lip curled in distaste.

“How long would this arrangement last?” You asked, tentatively.

“About six months.” He replied. “Like I said, everybody benefits. You get a handsome bachelor, I get free publicity, and the studio makes a bunch of money. Do we have a deal?” He extended his hand and smirked. You hesitated. Six months for a fruitful career and a lifetime of success? What could go wrong?

You shook his hand and were surprised by how firm his grip was. “Deal.”

“Smart move, darling.”

The bell rang again, signaling the end of the break. Diego stood up and offered you his hand again. You set the fan and empty glass aside and he pulled you up from your seat. “My driver and I will pick you up at 7. Dress code is black tie and please, don’t be late.”

He turned on his heel to walk back onto set. As you followed, you couldn’t ignore the growing sense of trepidation brewing in your heart. What could go wrong?

-

Shortly after filming ended that day, you took a cab back to your apartment and inspected your closet. Diego specified black tie, which meant a full-length evening gown, gloves, and jewelry. You had a few nice dresses from the department store, three of them full length. Sure, they wouldn’t be as elegant or glamorous as the Dior, Chanel, and Balenciaga gowns you’d see tonight but that just gave you something else to strive for. Maybe next time you would be the one wearing Chanel and turning heads.

You drew a cool bath and scrubbed your face and hair free of make-up and styling products. Of course, you were going to have to reapply them later but for the moment, you felt very refreshed.

Before you left the set that day, you asked your stylist to recommend some good salons in the area. Your hair and make-up skills were limited so you opted to have it professionally done. Diego made it sound like there would be photographers everywhere and you wanted to look your best.

The gravity of your situation didn’t really register until you were sitting in the stylist’s chair and staring at yourself in the mirror, that visceral moment when suddenly every blemish and flaw seemed magnified. Your stylist was a talkative lady with pink hair, but you were only half listening to what she was saying. This arrangement was only temporary, you reasoned, and then you would be free of him. But deep down, you knew you would never really be free of him.

For the next six months, you would be “Diego Brando’s girlfriend” and after you separated, you’d still be known as “that girl who dated Diego Brando” or “Diego Brando’s ex.” You came to Hollywood to make a name for yourself, to be admired for your work, to be remembered as something greater than “so-and-so’s ex.” When you left your hometown to become an actress, you knew the risks, but the rewards were better than any opportunity available there. You were patient, auditioning for minor roles at first and building up your resume until you decided to audition for a few major parts. Just when it seemed like your hard work was paying off, you made a deal with the devil, disguised as a charming British thespian.

“What do you think?” The girl chirped, breaking you out of your thoughts.

She definitely did a nice job. You barely recognized yourself. The make-up was tastefully done and not nearly as caked on as your usual “stage face.” She pinned your hair up in an elegant up do, which brought special attention to your face and kept the back of your neck cool. You nodded approvingly, tipped her well and headed back to your apartment to finish getting ready.

-

As promised, a limousine pulled up to the front of your building at exactly seven o’clock. It seemed Diego was a punctual man and you had to admit he looked handsome in his gray, three-piece Armani suit. He greeted you curtly when you slid into the back with him and then immediately started dictating how the night would go.

“So, when we pull up to the gallery, there will be a lot of cameras flashing, alright? I get out first, then I help you out, like the gentleman I am.” Diego eyed you in your pale blue dress like a jeweler appraising a gemstone. “You look decent enough, I suppose. I’ll buy you the dress next time although they won’t really be paying attention to you.”

You frowned. “Isn’t that the whole point of this?”

“Relax, love, you have six months to catch their attention.” He crooned. “Just think of this as acting experience. If you want to be as big a star as me someday, you’ll have to get used to the flashing lights, invasive questions, and lack of personal space.”

You looked out the tinted windows at the passing streetlights. You imagined them as eyes peering into the dark leather interior, prying into your innermost thoughts. If what Diego said was true, when you were famous and in the public eye, every move you made was picked apart by paparazzi, who descended like a kettle of vultures. One wrong move and you’d be vilified. If something that was meant to stay private leaked out, there would be an outcry of scandal that could, depending on what it was, jeopardize your whole career.

Another thought suddenly crossed your mind. “Diego,” you said. “Are you going to kiss me?”

He tensed beside you. “Err, probably not. The most I’d do is hold your hand or put my arm around you like this while we’re sitting.” You felt his arm snake around the back of the seat. “Even in my real relationships, I don’t care for too many public displays of affection. I don’t think it’s very professional, really.”

You nodded thoughtfully. “I agree and I feel it’s ‘too soon’ in the relationship to do that. This is our first public event together, after all. Let’s leave them wanting.”

“What’re you thinking?”

“I’m thinking less is more. The press would go wild for a picture of us kissing, especially if we never do it.” You said. “Let’s fuel the fire and make them fan the flames.”

The glow of the passing streetlamps illuminated Diego’s face, casting it in shadow. A glint caught in his eye. “I like the way you think.”

The limousine jerked to a stop and suddenly you were very aware of your department store dress, hand-me down pearl necklace, and $70-dollar hair do. You swallowed and gripped at the small clutch purse you brought. Diego had told you what to do. Smile and look pretty, let him lead you to the door. The hardest part was getting inside. If this was the kind of fame you wanted, you couldn’t let the people and flashing lights overwhelm you.

Diego was a shrewd operator. Every movement he made was calculated and perfected, so it appeared seamless. For you, everything was a blur of faces and cameras and people shouting over each other. You were pretty sure you heard “Diego!” and “Who’s that?” over the commotion. This time, Diego’s firm grip was comforting, and you concentrated on the back of his blond head as he led you down the concrete path.

Your heels clicked on the white marble flooring of the entrance way and you breathed a sigh of relief. Diego let go of your hand and scanned the room. “That went well.” He said. You inspected your palms and saw little crescents indented in the skin. “Do you ever cut your fingernails? They’re like claws.”

“Oi, I clip my fingernails once a week like everyone else. They just grow fast is all.” Diego said defensively. “You have a death grip like a construction worker. Maybe you should’ve done that instead of acting.”

You rolled your eyes and looked around. The gallery was large and open with white marble floors lined with royal blue carpets, and cream-colored walls decorated by avant-garde paintings. A large set of double oak doors was at the end of the room. Fellow guests milled around the entryway in groups, but you didn’t see anyone you would recognize.

“What’s this fundraiser for, anyway?” You asked.

Diego shrugged. “No idea. I just got the invitation in the post and saw Steven Steel’s name on it. Figured it’d be a good excuse to dress up and eat fancy food with other rich people.” Your stomach growled when he mentioned food. The last thing you ate was a handful of blueberries and a soggy sandwich on set that afternoon. You were starving.

He offered you his arm, which you took, and led you through the double doors into the main showroom. You glanced around at the various tables along the floor and spotted several famous faces. The man with the tall silver-blond hair was French actor Jean-Pierre Polnareff and sitting next to him was the famous Egyptian magician Mohammed Avdol. At the table next to theirs was the famous British fashion model Lisa Lisa, impeccably poised and smoking a cigarette in a fancy holder. A few people turned in their seats to look at you and Diego as you passed.

“Ugh, look who’s at our table.” You heard Diego scoff.

You were shocked.

It was Johnny Joestar.

The Joestars were basically Hollywood royalty and Johnny was no exception. Dubbed “Joe Kid” by his fans, Johnny was the face of young Hollywood, an All-American country boy with cute dimples and a youthful face. He made a name for himself playing the righteous young cowboy protagonist in Western action films, the hero who saved the girl and brought justice to a lawless landscape. Everyone knew him and it seemed like his star would only grow brighter.

Until the accident happened.

It was about a year ago. The papers said Johnny was on a walk with his girlfriend one evening when a crazed fan came up from behind and shot him in the back. He lived, fortunately, but was paralyzed from the waist down and would need to use a wheelchair for the rest of his life. The studio abruptly ended his contract and he hadn’t been seen or mentioned since.

“Joestar,” Diego hissed. He pulled out your chair and pushed you into the table before taking his place beside you. The three of you were the only ones there, so far, and Johnny sat across from you in his wheelchair. It struck you how different he looked in real life. His tousled blond hair reached his shoulders now and for someone known for his dimples, it seemed like a scowl was permanently etched on his face.

Johnny sneered. “Ugh, I should’a known you’d be here tonight, Diego. Never could resist an opportunity to boot lick.”

You knew Johnny and Diego had a history. They had been rivals, once, before Johnny’s accident. They competed for roles, awards, and the hearts of beautiful women. Diego held nothing but contempt for his former rival. He claimed Johnny didn’t have a shred of talent and used the Joestar name to get his roles instead of working hard to earn his fame, like he had. “I came from nothing” he was so fond of reminding you. The feeling was mutual, at least from what you read. Johnny once called Diego “a stuck-up prick who should go back to community theater.”

“Who invited you, anyway? I thought it was clear no one wanted you around since you lost your legs.” Diego said.

You bit your lip and looked down at your lap. Should you say something? Diego could be a heartless bastard, you knew that. Honestly, you felt for Johnny. This man had lost everything. What happened was an accident, he didn’t deserve to get shot, no matter how much the media tried to demonize him.

You gently touched his arm. “Diego, dear, be nice.” You implored, batting your eyelashes for effect. “Please, for me?”

Johnny narrowed eyes and turned his pale blue gaze towards you. They were much more intense in person and once again you were aware of how insignificant you were compared to people like him. “Who’s this?”

Diego looked at you with a simpering smile and draped his arm over the back of your chair, like you’d practiced in the limousine. “This is my new girlfriend.” He replied. “Jealous?”

Johnny regarded you for a moment. “Lemme guess, you’re his co-star? What’s your name?”

You told him and reached over to shake his hand. “It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Joestar. I’m a big fan of your work.”

You weren’t lying. If any singular actor inspired you to finally move to Hollywood and pursue your dream, it was him. Westerns were far from your favorite genre but if Johnny Joestar was starring in it, you’d drag your family to see it anyway. It was surreal for you to be so close to him.

He nodded politely and shook your hand. You were surprised by how rough and calloused his palms were. “You must be new. I’m not familiar with any of your roles.”

“Yes, this is my first major role. I was very excited when I found out I was going to be working with Diego Brando.” You said. “I’ve learned so much from him.”

“This movie is going to be a hit.” Diego cut in. “Darling, you’re such a captivating actress, everyone will adore you.”

“How long have you two been together?” Johnny asked.

“Two weeks.” Replied Diego.

Johnny went quiet for a moment, inspecting his fingernails intently. “I see,” he said. “Sleeping with Diego is a smart career move. Come up with it yourself?”

An indignant “what” was all you could manage as color bled across your cheeks.

Johnny wasn’t fazed at all. “Listen, I don’t much like lyin’ to people, so I’ll tell you this. When I look at you, I don’t see ‘star material.’ You got a decent figure and a marginally pretty face but nothing about you stands out. They don’t care how good your acting is, it’ll never be good enough for the kinda fame you want. You can be a good actress, but you’ll never be a star.”

You were fuming. Absolutely livid. Who did he think he was? He didn’t know you! He was just bitter. Jealous of the fact that you had a promising career when his ended prematurely. At first, you felt bad for him. Now? You couldn’t even look at him without seeing red.

“You’re better off this way, promise.” Johnny continued, though you could barely hear him over the thundering of your own heart in your ears. “Nobody in this town gives a shit about you when you stop making them money. They’ll turn you out on your back the minute you can’t be their ideal person. The price of fame isn’t worth it.”

You weren’t listening anymore. Any sympathy you had for Johnny and his situation was completely evaporated by the heat of your anger. Diego and the media were right. He was an asshole. Another person to prove wrong. Your movie would be a success. Over the next six months, you’d endear yourself to the public, charm the Hollywood elite and once you secured your place, he’d see how wrong he was.

“Oi mate, you can fuck off.” Diego interjected.

“Eat shit.”

You shot up from your chair and grabbed your purse off the table. “Excuse me, I’m going to the bathroom.” You said quietly, desperately trying to keep your voice from cracking. Your throat felt tight and tears gathered at the corners of your eyes as your emotions boiled over. At least the next time you needed to cry on command, you could think back on Johnny’s words, which still echoed inside your skull. They stung. A lot. And as you hurried through the maze of tables, all you could think about was how true they might be.

-

This is my first time posting on tumblr and I was really excited to share this! Hope you enjoyed it. My inbox is open so if you have any comments or feedback, I’d love to hear it. Even if you just want to chat, I’d love to get to know the community.